


All That Glitters

by squeaklings



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen, Sandy Appreciation Day, Sandy is adorable, cuteness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 13:35:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squeaklings/pseuds/squeaklings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandy is infatuated with glitter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That Glitters

**Author's Note:**

> Another prompt-driven ficlet, this one to "glitter." It was originally meant to simply be humor, but it turned into a little more than that.

The first time Sandy saw glitter, he was so overcome with absolute wonder that he lost control of the dream he was forming and it ran amok among the small cave tribe, prancing and dancing and causing a general mess of things. By the time he caught it the entire tribe was gently snoring, and all their carefully selected dreams were a jumbled mess. He gave a silent apology but couldn’t bring himself to feel _too_ terribly bad about it, not with his attention drawn as it was. Apologies over (and dreams properly fixed), he floated over to the cave wall, golden hand tracing the harsh and crudely-drawn lines that sparkled like stardust.

It was one of the most beautiful things he’d seen in a very, very long time.

He watched it change over time, from crudely-ground rocks used in cave paintings, to finely-ground rocks used on clothes and faces, to tiny pieces of glass and plastic used on children’s drawings. He loved to see it shimmer and sparkle, and on more than one occasion (although he’ll deny it), he might have, possibly, maybe, used his influence to spread his love of the shining, glittering substance.

(Needless to say, he looks back on the 1980s with more fondness than the decade probably deserves.)

And somehow word got out among the others. He didn’t truly give it much mind when, years and years before, he’d found an Easter Egg that shimmered like the night sky, perfectly detailed in every way. (He keeps it right beside his bed.)

He didn’t really think much about how, every few years, glittery batons would wash up along the dream shores of his home, strangely dry and covered in blues and reds and colors there weren’t yet names for. (Those decorate his doorway.)

He was a little suspicious when he noticed fine, elegant feathers that glittered beautifully on one of his Indian routes twenty some-odd years ago, but he shrugged and assumed they had something to do with one of the festivals going on at the time. (They hang from strings of sand around his room.)

He did notice, however, when a group of children from a certain town all left pictures attached to their bedroom windows by whorls of frost and ice. No two were the same; some had dinosaurs, others horses or fish or butterflies. One even had a truly detailed sky city. But each and every one was lovingly made despite the artistic ability of the maker, and they all had one other thing in common.

Each picture had a tiny, golden man on a tiny, golden cloud made entirely of glitter, and in handwriting ranging from elegant to childish to chicken-scratch, the words “Thank you.”

These he carries with him every day.


End file.
